An ungodly giggle escapes me at the idea of Rowan’s oldest brother having to bear that kind of cross for the rest of his life. Lancelot? Really?
“And you? Mr. R.G. Kane?”
“Galahad,” he grumbles under his breath, bringing my attention to the lightest shade of pink in his cheeks.
“Aw. That’s cute.”
“There’s only room for one liar here, and it’s not you.”
I shove his shoulder. “I mean it! The story behind it makes it that much more special.”
His body tightens. “If you tell anyone, I’ll have to—”
“Yeah, yeah. Fire me. I got it already.”
“I’ll have to fuck you. But if you’re interested in role-playing the other scenario, I’m more than happy to oblige.”
“Did you make a sex joke?! I am absolutely scandalized.” I speak in a Southern accent while fanning my face.
He shakes his head like I’m the most amazingly crazy person he’s ever met. Okay, I’m only assuming, but it seems like a plausible guess.
I hold out my hand. “You have a deal.”
33
Rowan
“It’s not too late to go home.” Zahra uses her menu as a shield to block the entire left side of her face.
When I booked a reservation at the finest restaurant in Orlando, I didn’t expect her to protest the moment we sat down. Ever since the hostess showed us to our table at the back of the restaurant ten minutes ago, Zahra’s been flushed and unable to sit still. I thought wine would help with first-date nerves, but she’s already guzzled one full glass.
Is she afraid to be out in public with me? I highly doubt any paparazzi worth their salt would be prowling the streets of central Florida waiting for a celebrity.
I frown, pulling down her menu. “Is it too fancy?”
“No—I mean yes! I mean, look at this menu.” She pulls it back up, flaunting it to me while shielding both our faces now. “Any place without prices and lots of French words is a red flag for my bank account.”
“You’re not paying,” I speak in a dry tone.
“Yeah, well, it would be presumptuous for me to assume we wouldn’t go halfsies.”
“Halfsies.” I choke. “What has gotten into you?”
“Nothing.” She bites her lip. Her skin goes from pink to red, giving away her inability to lie about anything.
“Are you always this nervous on a first date?”
She frowns. “I’m not nervous.”
“You drank a two-hundred-dollar glass of wine in ten minutes.”
Her entire face pales. “Two. Hundred. Dollars?!” she whisper-shouts. “Why would you spend that much on a bunch of old grapes?”
I can’t hold back my laugh. It’s barely audible over the people surrounding us.
Her eyes slide from me to another table across from us where a blond male and female sit.
“Do you know those people?”
She jumps in her chair. “Who?”
I blink at her.
Her shoulders slump as she slides a few inches farther down her chair. “Yes.”
“Who are they?”
“The blond guy with tiny hands and a massive forehead is Lance.”
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Of all the places? Here? This would never happen in Chicago. There are too many damn people to run into someone I hate.